#rocky slope

[photoclic64]

Côte basque : Socoa

Jean-Marie SUHUBIETTE

[caffeinosis]

The Lion of Keos

Expectation

Reality

Some archaeological sites are very accurate, others are really not. The Aegean islands in particular look all wrong. Too green.

[sopha-luff]

What a gorgeous creature

[whywishesarehorses]

We rode in the arena for almost an hour before abandoning folks to their gaming practice and going out for a sunset loop of the trails

[burgerrat]

Later tonight I might finally watch REPO! The Genetic Opera....

I've never seen it I only know it exists because of the song 'Let the monster rise' was used in a King Candy AU (where he's Vanellope's dad) tribute video back in 2013-2014....

I remembered I needed to watch this bc a while ago when I was talking to a friend of mine about POTP they said it reminded them a lot of REPO and I had a neuron activation moment dndjsj

[rabbitcruiser]

Carved

What do you think about my pic?

[dontmeanyoudontmissit]

My bf: wow that person really cares about home security

Me: That's Taylor Swift's house...

[mymomsaiditwasaphase]

Actually no, I want a Vespa

Unfortunately, my father says I cannot ride stuff like that if I cant even ride a bike, but like, that aint my fault

[tcypionate]

i think i really fucked up my knee from the pride event. it did not enjoy me going up and down rocky hills in docs even with my prosthetics in

[mothercain]

The Consequence of Audience

As I went there through the long, long wood, I felt no-thing and I was no-thing and I was at ease. The grey ash trees and their mottled plumage were as one with each other, curving and branching to form a ceiling overhead. There was wide separation between trunks, creating vast corridors stretching off in all directions before me, behind me, all around me. O, what praise I could sing of that never-ending dusk fall I spent between those oaks! None came with me, none came upon me, for I was alone and I was at ease. Yet came the day the trees broke, the corridor ended, and I was thrust upon the rocky expanse that was the Great Dark. There I saw first face and heard footstep, few and far between, but I was no longer alone. It was a shameful deed to carry these two naked hands as they clenched hotly, now in full display for all to see. I had never noticed them in the wood, for I was at ease. Here, the taut skin seemed to stretch and sweat, almost glowing, as if exasperated of their own grip. For as I wandered the Great Dark, there was not but grey, barren rock as far as any eye could see. It did make a passerby out of an observer. I saw them trudge by, fingers dipped into their open mouths desperate for wetness, the lolled tongue. There, in the wood, I was the watcher, but here I am nothing but displacing air. Yet, within the smothering toil of my apathy, I had heard the bell. Murmur of God between their slick, bent fingers ruffled the hair on the back of my neck. My muscles groaned against the weight of the skin around them, aching to be set loose. All at once, I saw, from where I stood, there rose a great dome atop a hill on the horizon before me. Yes, I saw it there with mine own two eyes! The white exterior peered at me with flat orifices obscured through the mist, barely distinguishable from the dark sky behind it, as though all the world beyond the dome was cut from the same slab, only slightly effaced. The convex roof sat atop a disk, held up by great ionic pillars circling the temple. Steps radiated out and down the slope, like ripples in a pond escaping a dropped stone. It was greater than life, greater than the wood, greater than all else which filled this dark, and my gullible delight was that it was all mine. Yes, all mine! One could follow me to it but they could not follow me in. My hands stretched outwards with an audible cracking in the bone as I crept forward there. I could not tell you the rest. I would not even attempt, for it would change no-thing. To know if I did go completely naked into the theater of the divine. If I did need for no-thing, want for no-thing. If I was then full to the brim, cylindrical pull slid through my gaping jaw into my endless throat. If I saw it there, shimmering through the veil like pearlescent oil over crystal water. If it heard me singing with every atom that formed me, through every orifice and wound I had, polytonal in my begging for it to complete me with the fifth. If it looked into me, saw how I needed to know what God knows and to be with him. If it spoke back to me in flat dissonance, “how couldn’t ye?” It would be of no good to speak these things to you. In what way I was still returned to the ground, even if beneath it, intact with my puerile need to repeat my-self and my mistakes. Who would not climb the wall for a peer over the edge? The cautionary tale is the fool’s errand, and I am no fool. I am as my hands are; twisting in on themselves and bursting at the seams. I can-not contain the ache for sensation, just as I could not contain the grief as I fell, nor the agony as I crawled my way back to this rocky countryside, and lo! I am on my way there again now. I am, I am, I am! But I will not tell you the visceral details, as you already know them. You all do.

It’s happening to every-body.

[gorey]

I just said punchbuggy to virgil and then looked closer and it was a tesla what the hell man

[pascalispretty]

each man's mad desire

General Marcus Acacius x F!Reader

Rating: Explicit

Summary: Marcus Acacius is a conqueror. You invite him to conquer you.

Word Count: 3.8k

Tags: marcus fucks a nymph, predator/prey, knifeplay, blood, thigh riding, rough sex, sorta consensual-non-consent? Reader very explicitly wants him and invites him to hunt her down. Marcus has an unfashionably huge dick.

A/N: I swore I wasn't going to write for another character from an unreleased film, yet here we are. I loved studying Classics, so there are easter eggs within for those familiar with mythology. "Nymph" is more Greek than Roman, but it's also the better-known version of the word. Barcinus is a completely made-up cognomen for him (from the Latin name for Barcelona). Ichor is a Greek concept, but too delicious not to borrow here. Big dicks really were considered unattractive - it was a sign of barbarism to have a big penis. Title from Book IX of The Aeneid. Painting is 'The Charmer' by John William Waterhouse. (ao3)

The battle is won, the men are settled, and General Marcus Acacius is restless. He wears the efforts of the day in the blood and grime and sand coating his skin, the ache in his muscles. The city is retaken. The barbarians have been slaughtered or captured. He knows he should rest.

And yet, he wanders.

The camp is close by the beach. As he walks, the sound of the army behind him fades away, drowned out by the sound of the sea. The inviting aroma of the campfires and roasting meat is replaced by the smell of salt. There are sentries out here, somewhere in the night. He pays them no mind; he wishes to be alone. Grass turns to sand underfoot and still Acacius walks on. At the edge of the sea, he pauses briefly.

Across the Great Sea, to the east, stands Rome. It’s veiled by darkness and distance, but he turns to look for it anyway. He misses it the way a loyal son misses a beloved father. Word of a great victory will travel before him, the whispers moving faster than any army can.

When he returns home, he hopes he will be warmly welcomed. Those seeking to ride his skirts into Imperial favour will doubtless fall over themselves to praise him, at least. They will preen and flatter, and he will nod humbly and thank them.

“The Gods were with me.” It is always his answer, when asked of his victories. It is a clean answer. Men praise him for his piety; they do not imagine the lives he has sacrificed, the atrocities he has committed, the horrors of sacking a city. The Gods were with him; he does not have to speak of loosing his men like feral dogs upon innocents, of slaughtering barbarian sons so they cannot grow up to seek their vengeance on Rome.

Acacius turns and walks down the beach, leaving the camp behind him. The silvery light of the stars and moon light his path along the coast. He simply enjoys being away from all others, the crash of the waves and his own footsteps the only noise he can hear. The ground to his right begins to rise, soft grass yielding to rock. He has no sense of how long he has walked for when the beach before him suddenly ends. The shoreline curves sharply inward, creating a rocky inlet.

He has no desire to turn back now. Perhaps the path reemerges on the other side. He follows the curve of the stone inward. Ahead, he can see the path sloping down towards the waterline, leading towards the dark mouth of a cave. The tide is coming in; the water at the entrance to the grotto must be at least knee-deep.

Acacius is turning to leave when he notices her.

The inlet in the rock forms a pool at the entrance to the cave. Even in the silvery moonlight, the water looks beautiful and clear. It should not surprise him that a maiden might come to bathe there, away from prying eyes.

For it is a maiden that stops him in his tracks, fixes his boots to the stone. Her back is turned to him; she is perched atop a rock, her bare feet dangling in the saltwater of the pool. Now that he is aware of her, he thinks he hears her singing over the sounds of the waves, a melody he does not recognise.

An honourable man would depart. Acacius can only see her back, but she must be noble. Her dress is so white it is almost blinding, even in the starlight. Her feet are bare, but he spies a pair of finely-wrought sandals on the rocks beside her. Certainly a noble lady then.

His mind is made up to leave.

And at that very moment, she turns.

***

You had not expected to be discovered. Perhaps you might have toyed with him if you had. You could have disguised yourself as a maiden in need of assistance, a princess cast ashore by a shipwreck. There are endless amusements to be found among the mortals.

Yet he has stumbled upon your grotto quite by accident, and from your first glimpse, he intrigues you.

Marcus Acacius Barcinus.

Something whispers his name to you; you know it as soon as you see him, just as you know he has dark hair threaded with grey. You allow a smile to play on your lips.

To his credit, this man does not move. Confronted with something so nakedly celestial, other men have lost their minds. What is it for a man to look upon the face of the divine? They do not always survive it. This one seems strong. He may yet survive you.

“Hail, noble General,” you start, turning in your seat on the rock so you may face him more directly. He is a handsome one. His lovely dark eyes drink you in from head to toe.

“You know me?” He manages after a moment. Not mad then, not yet anyway. You laugh, and he seems startled by the sound.

“I do.” Sliding off the rock you step into the water, your stola clinging to your skin. “General Marcus Acacius Barcinus, son of Gaius Acacius. Your piety is known.” He is always attentive with his sacrifices. You can smell the burning flesh and spilled wine dedicated to the heavens from here, in honour of his latest victory.

You take a few steps towards him. He’s still atop the rocky crest, almost looking down on you. You near the base of the slope, your skirts drying the moment they leave the water, and halt again. The mouth of the grotto is to your back; you can hear the lap of the waves echoing against the rocky walls.

��And which noble goddess do I have the honour of addressing?” He asks. You have many names, too many to sift through. A mortal wrote you into a poem once; you give him the name the poet gave you.

“I had not thought ever to look upon a nymph before.” There is something in the way he says it; a tone of disbelief colouring his voice. It’s as though he expects to wake up in his tent at any moment. In the dark violet light of twilight, the blood on his skin looks brown and rusty. You can almost taste the iron on the air.

“Are you content merely to look?” You ask him, a sly smile on your lips. You already know he is not. This man is a conqueror, and he is looking at you with all the intensity and desire of a man set upon conquest. He does not speak for a long moment. Perhaps he is afraid of offending you, of saying the wrong thing and finding himself transformed into a pig or sea foam.

You walk a little closer to him, emerging from the water. Closer now, the smell of him drowning out the salt of the sea. He reeks of man, of blood and sweat and such pure vitality you nearly stagger. He’s so breathtakingly alive. If all mortal men are thus, you understand why your sisters seek them out and take them to bed, even bear their children.

“I admire a man who knows how to take what he desires. A conqueror in all things,” you continue, feeling the warmth of his gaze as he watches the sway of your hips. Once you are an arm’s length away from him, you reach out. You cannot help it. He’s such a marvellous specimen of manhood, the kind that ought to be honoured with a kingdom or a divine son or his form traced in the stars.

He does not stop you when you rest your palm against the leather of his cuirass. It’s warm to the touch, whether from the heat of his body or a day of the sun beating down upon it. The black leather has a gilded woman’s face across the front; Minerva perhaps. It gives you pause. If he values Minerva and her strategies above Mars and his frenzy, he may not enjoy your games.

Nevertheless, you will not let the tastes of mortal men unnerve you. He watches you as you undo the knot at one shoulder, and wordlessly reaches to help you. Together, the two of you free him from his heavy armour. As he sets it down gently against the rock, you nearly choke on him. You can hear the thrum of his heart, smell the salt of his sweat, the iron in his blood.

You have never starved. Yet this conqueror of men is like being blessed with a feast and realising for the first time that you have been dying of hunger all your life. Freed from his heavy leathers, you step so closely to him that your glimmering white dress brushes against his filthy red tunic. You reach out to cup his jaw, enjoying the way his skin feels to your touch.

He swallows thickly, his lovely eyes searching your face.

“I want you.” He says it simply, though you know it must have taken courage. Men have died for such insults before. You let a smile curl around your lips.  

“Mars himself had my maidenhead. I do not submit easily to the advances of men.” Standing on tiptoe, you lean in until your lips nearly touch the shell of his ear. “If you want me, you will have to take me.”

It’s all the prompting you give him before you turn and run.

You run down the beach, back the way he came. You have more powerful kin who could outrun him with ease, if they chose. Minerva could be a continent away in moments, if she chose. You do not have their same powers; you might be fleeter of foot than a mortal woman, but you cannot transform yourself into a swan and fly back to the heavens.

Behind you, you hear Acacius’ feet pounding against the sand. The noise blurs with the roar of his heartbeat, thumping harder as he chases you. You run faster, pulling your skirts up with one hand so they cannot tangle around your legs. It has been far too long since you felt this exhilarated. Off in the distance, you can see the lights of his camp, the torches and bonfires burning brightly in the twilight.

You lose yourself to the chase, paying the distance no mind as you race down the beach. Sand flies up beneath your bare feet, gritty under your toes as you run. Something in you wants to turn around, to see if the handsome general is still close behind you. You can hear him well enough to know he is behind you, but not well enough to gauge the distance.

You don’t look. You only run.

Even though you had invited the hunt, desperately hoping to be caught, the hand that catches your waist surprises you. He seizes you by the waist and tackles you into the sand, pinning you beneath his muscular bulk. The feeling of being trapped sends a perverse thrill racing through you, something warm stirring in your belly.

Though he has caught you, you do not give in so easily.

You thrash underneath him, trying to throw him off you. Acacius is unyielding. His large hands grip your arms; his knees squeeze at your sides. You get one arm free and bring it up. You’re not sure what you intend to do; you don’t want to break him. Scratch him, perhaps? You never get the chance to find out.

Before you see him move, he seizes your arm and pins your wrist beneath his foot. One hand flies to your throat; the other draws a dagger from its sheath and holds the point against the swell of your breast.

For a long moment, you cannot breathe. The large hand at your throat squeezes just enough to threaten a loss of air. The foot on your wrist makes the delicate bones there grind together on just the right side of pleasure-pain. And oh, the blade at your heart. The tip pierces your skin and you don’t know whether to scream or cry or vomit from the shock.

You have never been so still in your life.

When has anything mortal ever pierced your skin? When has anything mortal managed to cut through the skin of your kith and kin? You have vague memories; bandaging Mars’ side after the great spearman Diomedes struck him outside Ilium. You watch in horror and awe as a bead of ichor seeps from the pinprick wound. Mars has made you bleed before, but you never thought a mortal might draw your glittering, golden blood.

You look up at him, your conqueror. He is panting hard, but his face shows no exhaustion; only determination. His eyes are nearly black with desire, and his lovely black and grey curls are damp with sweat. Gods, you want him. You want him to hunt you down as he would a deer, to throw you down and take you like some common mortal whore.

Watching you closely, Acacius eases his grip on your throat. A man used to gauging the weakness of his enemies has seen right through you in turn. He knows you do not need air to breathe. He knows he has done something astounding in the knife at your breast. He holds it steady as he reaches beneath the skirts of his tunic, pulling at the strings of his underthings. He pulls it free with a grunt and discards it beside you in the sand.

Free from its confinement, his manhood pushes against the skirt of his tunic. Something low in your belly twists in anticipation, slick coating the insides of your thighs. Your blood feels as though it’s boiling beneath your skin as Acacius grips the fine cloth of your stola in one filthy hand.

“You are the most beautiful thing I have ever laid eyes upon,” he tells you, in all sincerity. You tremble underneath him as he pushes your skirts up around your waist, another bead of ichor welling up around the tip of the blade.

You gasp as the metal shifts, and his eyes flick to your face. Almost lovingly, his hand wraps around your throat again.

“Do you yield?” When no reply is immediately forthcoming, he presses his advantage. The hand at your throat and foot at your wrist push harder; more glittering blood beads at your breast. The surface tension finally breaks, sending the blood dripping down towards your neck.

“I yield.” In an instant, he relaxes his hold. The foot on your wrist disappears, as does the blade. The hand on your throat remains, tipping your head up so he can kiss you. He kisses like his master, Mars; hard and demanding. You return the kiss with bruising intensity, nipping at his lower lip. It seems only fair that you make him bleed a little, in turn.

His beard prickles against your skin, and you answer it by sliding your hand into his curls and pulling roughly. Acacius groans against your mouth, crushing himself closer to you and forcing your legs apart with his knee. His muscular thigh presses against your bare cunt, the pressure sending liquid fire dancing through your body. You rut up against his thigh eagerly, your slick smearing against his skin.

Acacius notices your movements, breaking off the kiss to stare at you. The raw lust in his eyes makes you keep going, rocking your hips desperately against him. His thigh flexes between your legs, and you groan loudly. Without taking his eyes off you, his hand drifts to cup your breast, tantalisingly close to the tiny wound on your unblemished skin.

“Are you going to stab me again, slayer of men?” You ask him, tauntingly. You wouldn’t mind if he did.

“No, dear mistress. I’ll watch you debase yourself on my thigh.” Oh, you want to keep him. Your sisters have kept mortals before; you remember well the fuss around sweet Hylas, cunning Ulysses. Your conqueror finds your nipple through the fine material of your dress, the flesh stiffening beneath his fingers as he toys with you.

Your hips roll easier, faster as you sink deeper into your pleasure. Every glide becomes slicker as you soak his skin. It’s been some time since you’ve so blatantly sought your own pleasure, and you welcome it back eagerly. That familiar tension is coiling tightly in your belly and sends you spiralling higher with every movement.

Acacius watches you with fascination. His own pleasure is forgotten for the moment, though you suppose he is enjoying this. Something divine rubbing against him like a cat in heat; no man alive would believe him if he told them. Your breath comes in short, sharp gasps and you clutch at Acacius’ wrist to ground yourself. He’s so solid and warm to your touch; his vitality is unlike any aphrodisiac you have ever known.

It’s not long before you come with a cry, your nails digging into Acacius’ skin as you shudder against him. The fire in your belly burns through you, the heat of it radiating out to your fingertips. It leaves you boneless beneath your conqueror. He seizes the advantage, pulling your legs wider apart to slot his other leg between them.

You struggle. Why not? It amuses you to make him manhandle you into place. He pulls your legs wider with one hand. With the thumb of the hand at your breast, he presses just below the cut. The burst of pain makes you hiss. Cowed, you let him pull your legs apart, his eyes feasting on your cunt. You must look a mess, swollen and soaked.

Acacius lets go of your leg and pulls up the hem of his tunic. He’s big, unfashionably so for his countrymen. Beads of fluid leak from the reddened tip, and he swipes them away with his thumb. He settles himself between your thighs, and you gasp when he notches the blunt head of his cock against your entrance. Without warning or reprieve, he forces his cock inside you.

You throw your head back against the sand, stars exploding against your closed eyelids as you dance along the knife edge of pleasure and pain. A deep groan rumbles out of Acacius’ throat as he presses deeper, working against your tight muscles to seat himself within you. He’s unrelenting, his length thick and twitching as it fills you.

There’s no other word for it; you wail up at the star-strewn sky, pleasure flooding through you. Your body feels too small to contain the fire being stoked inside you, deep in your core. You pull at Acacius, nails clawing, dragging him down to kiss you. His lips meet yours in a messy crash, all tongues and teeth as he finally seats himself fully within you.

He barely allows you a moment to adjust. He retreats almost fully, his cock nearly leaving you completely, before sliding back in with one fluid stroke of his hips. You’re shaken by how willingly your body accepts him, colouring any pain with so much pleasure you barely notice the discomfort. His hand finds your throat again, squeezing just enough to make you feel lightheaded.

Acacius’ incursions become sharper, harder, as he finds his rhythm. Your hands slide under the hem of his tunic to clutch at his back, your nails leaving behind tiny red crescents in his skin. Every breath you take is shared by him, your mouths so close together you can taste the wine lingering on his tongue. The two of you move together, your moans melting into one another as you fuck like animals in the sand.

It doesn’t take him long to send you over the edge again. Bliss wipes all words from your mind; you can only lie there and let your release crash over you. The ichor in your veins feels like it’s singing. Acacius looks down on you in awe, and it only drives you higher. You want to keep him. The Heroic Age is too far past; the world is lacking for heroes. Perhaps you and Acacius can make a few; handsome, strong boys, half-god children who reflect their father’s divine favour.

“Would you give me sons, Acacius?” You ask, breathless at his onslaught. Your foreheads are pressed together still; you cannot see the look on his face. He groans sharply, his hands clutch tighter at you. Is that a yes? What greater blessing to a pious man than a son born to a goddess.

He certainly shows no signs of stopping. He fucks you with the same vigour he fights with. You feel like you’re floating, high above your own body, lost completely to pleasure. Jupiter himself could command you to stop, and you’d be unable to obey. You grow restless beneath him. His hand has slackened around your throat, so you lean down to lick a line across his neck. The taste of salt and iron explodes across your tongue, so delicious that you have to force yourself not to sink your teeth in.

Acacius grunts above you, forcing you back down against the sand. His hips are stuttering; a sign that he’s close to his own release. You want to cry, want to prolong this as much as possible, but you know he has limits. Your sisters have pushed mortal men too far before; you will not make the same mistake, not with so delicious a playmate.

Instead you spur him on. Your nails dig harder into his back, making him groan sharply. His short, desperate thrusts make your eyes roll back into your skull as he touches something deep and private within you, unknown to anyone else.

“I- I must-” He starts, words failing him as he chases his release. You pepper his face with kisses, nip at his kiss-swollen lips.

“You must,” you agree. “I want you to fill me up.” You’re both breathless, barely any air between your bodies to breathe. One of your hands slides into his curls, pulling at them. You guide his head down until your lips are at his ear again.

“I could give you a son,” you whisper. “But only if you finish inside me. Claim me; mark me as yours. Conquer me.”

He tips over the edge with a loud groan, his hips stuttering as he comes. You can feel his cock twitch inside you as he does, filling you with his seed. Perhaps something might catch; he seems virile enough. You cradle his head against the crook of your neck as he catches his breath, his body heavy as he relaxes on top of you.

“Noble Acacius,” you murmur fondly, stroking his curls. “Marcus. What do you make of your new conquest?” He is quiet for a long moment. The crash of the waves fills the silence, the tide drawing closer. Soon, the two of you will have to move.

“I shall never know another victory like it.”

Taglist:

Tagging some people who might be interested: @iamasaddie (per their request for Acacius filth) @avengersfan25 @misscharlielulu @apenny4thots @its-nebuleuse

[sopha-luff]

I went bird banding today! What a neat experience! Went for female harlequin ducks. Unfortunately I wasn’t able to get a pic of the ducks but I got a pic of the awesome view on the way!!

[izvmimi]

cw: smut but softcore. hot spring. too much banter. reader is implied to have textured hair.

“Your hair’s grown long,” you murmur.

With the observation, your right hand wades gently in the steamy surface of the hot spring to rise to Tanjiro's damp cheek and pats it coquettishly before your fingers glide gently through the strands of his water-slicked burgundy locks. You’ve been submerged together, you to your collarbones and him just to the base of his pectoral muscles for the past thirty minutes, chatting idly with a short pause in conversation just moments before this to rest and relax, really letting the soothing waters seep into your skin. Traveling together has weighed heavy on you both and the few minutes to catch your breath have been welcome, but now that you're rejuvenated, you’re right back to teasing. 

“You think so?” he asks. He looks a bit surprised, his own rough fingers closing around a couple looser strands. The remainder stick close to his skin, framing his handsome face, his neck, and the slope of his broad shoulders, and you continue to run your hand through them at the forehead, gently scratching his scalp with your nails as you do so. 

“Yeah, not that I don’t like it,” you practically wink, and he smiles, pulling you into his arms so that you’re back pressed to chest again. You inhale softly and he sighs as if you were sharing one breath. 

“I must have not been paying attention,” he murmurs, kissing your ear. You laugh to yourself, a trickle of heat running down your spine with the nibble of his teeth..

“That’s why you have me,” you remind him, brightly. "To pay attention to you, that is." Your own hair is in a high bun, avoiding the water but reveling in the wafting steam to nurture your coils and he lets himself breathe deeply of the scent, then presses his lips to your neck. 

“Cut it for me?” he asks, tentatively. His hands wander again, gliding from your shoulders to your wrists, and the soft splash of the water parting accentuates the drop of your heart into your loins as he kisses the soft underside.

“I don’t know how to cut wavy hair,” you immediately answer, but he’s turning you to face him again in the water and his eyes look at you hungrily now, as if you’re having a conversation a lot more licentious than the simple act of snipping away with scissors.

“I don’t mind as long as you try your best.”

Tanjiro’s voice is coming out breathy and lower as he leans in, and he’s clearly asking for something more from you rather than this simple future act of service. Eyes darkening as you press your palm against his chest, right above the jagged scars, he asks if you think you’re up to it, and it’s clear he’s not talking about an impromptu haircut.

“And if I do a bad job?”

His hands are on your hips now, cupping the curve of your ass before they lift up, your legs reflexively finding their way in a hold around his waist. The warmth of the hard length pressed soft against your belly stands out so much more than anything in the world right now, enough to make your breath hold tightly in your throat.

“I won’t hold anything against you,” he teases.

You snort, but his bad joke has made him crack a smile. Pulling you with him through the water, he lets himself lean on the rocky wall as he supports you. 

“You’ll let me do whatever I want then?” you ask. He nods, biting his lower lip as you attempt to ease yourself around his cock. He’s good at flustering you, but easily forgets how quickly you can turn the tables on him, at a loss for words as you descend.

But then once you sink in, and take all of him inside, your arms reflexively wrapping around his neck, the temporary gain is lost as you adjust to his length, moaning as he stretches out your insides. Again. Just moments ago, you were like this, letting him slip in and out of you, fluid resistance meaning so little to him with every thrust.

“Of course,” he practically croons.

The push and pull between the two of you is always an endless wave of emotion, where even something as simple as telling your boyfriend he’s looking kind of shaggy ends up in being awash in emotion, but that’s the ebb and flow of your relationship and you wouldn’t have it any other way. 

[all-purpose-dish-soap]

59 / 3.4k / part 3 of shark mermen Gaz and Soap with human!reader <3

kinktober keywords: dubcon, monster mermen, monsterfucking, teratophilia, overt predator/prey dynamics, hypnosis/hypnokink, praise

...

"You gonna behave?"

You bite your lip and keep your arms tightly wound around your upper half. "I thought I was."

The movement catches Gaz's eyes. They darken. "Don't do that."

"Do what?"

He reaches out, catching your bottom lip between his thumb and forefinger. He pulls it gently lower and lets it snap back into place, and your lip stings with saltwater. "That."

You squirm in his hold.

Gaz keeps his grip, but lets you keep moving. His gaze drops again to your lips and keeps getting lower until it's obvious that he's staring at your neck. Even if he weren't a predator sensitive to the quick heartbeat and rushing blood of startled prey, he'd see the nerves all over you. He draws closer.

"You're so small," he murmurs.

You press back, but it does no good.

"And weak," Gaz continues. The clawtip of his index finger presses into the damp flesh of your stomach. "I could crack you open like the shell of a clam. Can I touch you?"

Before you can answer, Soap's hands wander up your legs again. You tense. Gaz's tail tightens under you in response.

"Bit late to ask if you can touch her," Soap says in their mer-tongue.

Gaz ignores him. "Stay still," he murmurs, his tail tightening. Not quite enough to crush anything, but enough to restrict more of your movement. "I won't hurt you."

As Soap makes a grab at one of your wrists, the coldness of your skin and the quickness of your pulse sends a small thrill down his spine.

You try to still your movements and steady your breath. It seems like the more you squirm and protest, the more it snags their interest. You're pretty sure by now they're not going to eat you, but their interest in you has taken an unmistakably carnal tilt.

"See?" Gaz says. "You can be good." He drags his claw lightly over your belly again, and you feel all the muscles of your midsection tense. If it weren't for him squeezing you so firmly, you'd almost be lifted out of the water.

"Good," he murmurs again.

"What do you want to see? I already showed you my legs."

"Everything else."

It's a blunt, straightforward answer. The way Gaz says it seems almost disinterested—matter-of-fact—but his gaze is fixed intently on your belly. He wants to see every inch of you, the softness and the curves and the hollow spots and the sharp dips.

Soap's hands find your waist, and he pulls you closer in in a way that forces you to arch your back, bough toward him, and spread your legs wider over Gaz's tail.

You steal a glance down at the glass-sharp rocky sand and the cold waves rising in. "Here?"

They don't bother to answer. Gaz shifts your hips up his tail, contorting you further. Soap stares openly down at your tits through your wet shirt as he drags his massive hands down your thighs and back up in an exploratory motion.

Gaz's scales push up against the crotch of your shorts. Your brain skips. This can't be happening right now and you can't be feeling kind of hot under the collar about it. No, nah, nope.

You plant your hands against Soap's shoulders and push him back. "I said not here! Take me somewhere nice." No, that's not quite right. "Somewhere private."

nsfw ⬇

Gaz digs his fingers into your hips and pushes you further up his tail. The movement grinds you into him like he's starting to feel you get warm and wet.

"Yeah?" Soap purrs, letting you push him away. There's no way you could throw him off unless he lets you, but he does. "Where d'you want us to take you, little human?"

"Somewhere soft and dry."

The two merman trade looks with one another. Gaz tilts his head down at you and narrows his dark eyes. "I know a place."

You swallow. "You do?"

"Mmhm." His tail shifts beneath you. "Have you ever seen a merman's bed?"

"No..."

Gaz’s tone drops to something just above a murmur. "It's carved out of sloping reef rock and lined with the softest, sun-warmed sand. Perfect to lie in."

Despite his attempt to soothe you, Soap's claws catching the hem of your torn shirt make you even more tense. You grab his hand and push it down. A muscle in your jaw jumps with irritation.

Soap stops pushing, but there's a look in his eye that you don't like at all. He knows he's bigger and stronger than you. All he has to do is pull back a little too hard, and he could easily yank you off Gaz's tail and into his own arms instead. He can make you do whatever he wants, and he knows it.

It makes you all the more aware of the strength of his body between your knees. He could pin you down so easily—he could crush you with the sheer size of him—and you'd never be able to do anything about it.

Before either of you makes a move, Gaz growls at Soap in their mer language. Soap's eyes snap up to Gaz's. His face tightens. His hands loosen and slide slowly out from under your shirt.

You watch it happen with an unsteady glare. But now they're watching each other rather than you. It only holds for a moment before Soap pulls his gaze away. He looks almost bored as he lets his hands drift back to your thighs.

"Fine," he murmurs. But the look in his eyes still leaves you with the uneasy feeling that he isn't entirely done with you.

Fine is the only word of it you understand, but you still feel the agitation in their tone and the subtle shifts of muscles in Gaz's back and shoulders against your chest. Still, he seems fine with Soap's hands on you as long as he's not agitating you further.

You look down at Gaz's claws. His grip on you stays tight. He isn't rough, exactly, but his hands are big and his touch is insistent and slightly possessive. His hands drift lazily over your hips, up your ribs, across the tops of your thighs. It feels like he's keeping track of every inch of you he's already felt.

You squeeze your legs together stubbornly when he gets close to your inner thighs.

His grip is like iron. You feel the muscles of his tail working beneath you as he shifts to get you just right again.

"Let me in," he murmurs.

"I don't think that's a good idea."

"And why not?" His hands wander up and down the seam of your legs.

You get the impression that he can smell you getting wet when you when you're squished up close against him like this. Does he think you're putting out crazy pheromones or something? A twinge of shame makes you look away. "Because we're mismatched."

"Mismatched?" He snorts and pulls you forward so you're leaning further back and against his chest. It exposes your neck to him and his eyes darken. "Your kind has a real obsession with categorizing everything, don't you? We can be matched just fine."

"But we're not, like, physically... you know... it would be weird. It's like having sex with an animal."

"I don't think humans are animals," Gaz murmurs. He draws his claws over the outside of your thigh--not causing pain or leaving marks, but stimulating the nerves under your skin with small jolts. "Besides in the literal sense. But then we both are."

You say nothing. His fingertips brush up the backs of your knees, and a shiver of awareness travels all the way down your spine to your toes. His voice is low and soft as he speaks to Soap in their language again. He rubs his thumb in tiny circles on the back of your knee.

If you knew what he was saying, you'd realise that he's telling Soap that you're nervous.

"It would be weird," you say again.

Soap scoffs. "You keep saying that word. Weirrrd," he repeats in a voice edged with disdain and mimicking your accent. "Why does it matter? There's no one else here."

Gaz tilts his head down in an attempt to catch your eye. "You're not even a little bit curious? You humans are always so desperate to know why and how things work. You used to poke and prod us. You're usually curious about stuff like this." His voice drops lower. "About new experiences. What if I told you that this could feel good?"

"It's still wrong." Even as you say it, you're starting to wonder. You're already pretty sure they won't hurt you. They would have already if they didn't care, right? But you can't bear to think about how disgusted people would be if they knew you were seriously considering this.

"You think it's wrong?" Gaz’s voice takes on an edge. "Humans have a lot of strange rules that don't make any sense. Do you really think we're that different?"

"Yeah."

His gaze drops to your lips. "That's what you humans get so wrong. You think everything means something. Rubbish. Sometimes things can just feel good. And this" --he strokes the sensitive skin of your ankle-- "could feel so good. If you let me in, you'll be warm and safe. That’s what you want, yeah? To be looked after?"

"I don't... I don't know."

Gaz hums and rubs your ankle. Your skin is softer than the salt-smoothed calluses of his hands, and your leg is so small. He feels like he would barely have to squeeze to break it in two. "It's okay not to know, you know," he says. "You've been through a lot. Can I tell you more about us?" he asks, voice low and soft. "About our kind?"

His voice seems to soothe your ragged nerves. "I guess so."

"Good human." He leans very close, his mouth against the shell of your ear. His hands tighten on your thighs again. You’re at his fingertips. You’ll be his in no time. "We're not so different. We hunt and we play. We fight and we... enjoy things." He traces his claw along the line of your legs again. "We can feel things other creatures can't. Sounds too quiet for other prey, smells under water, under the salt. We like the smell of other creatures. What do humans like to smell?"

"Um... flowers, I guess. And food. Baked goods."

He huffs a laugh. "What a waste of your senses." He slides his claw along the outside of your calf. "You humans like things to be clean, huh? Nice warm water and soap. So many rules and little rituals with your cleaning."

"Yeah, so?"

"But then you spend half of your time dirtying each other again. Fighting and rutting and making messes. Humans are strange. Your rules get in the way of your senses."

"We need rules to protect ourselves."

"You need rules to limit yourself," Gaz says. "No wonder you act so fragile. If you'd let yourself enjoy things, everything wouldn't seem so dangerous."

Soap watches you steadily. He can smell the way you're reacting as Gaz's voice washes over you and the way you melt slightly every time he touches you.

You huff. "That's easy for you to say."

"Humans keep themselves vulnerable. No claws, no callouses," Gaz says as he runs his free hand over your upper arm. Your skin is so smooth, he can feel the tiny hairs standing up as his hand passes over them. You really are like a seal—all big eyes and soft give everywhere and no bite to you whatsoever. Except your words, maybe. " How do you defend yourself like this? How do you hunt?"

You don't reply.

His hand finds its way into your hair, claws tracing lines over your scalp. "Do you know what it is to hunt by yourself? Taking charge when something catches your interest. Taking things that you want."

"Not really."

"It's thrilling."

"To be stronger and faster?"

"More than that. Feeling another creature's pulse beneath your teeth, hearing the crunch of bone as it gives way. Knowing you've caught your prey." Gaz strokes the hair back from your ear. His voice and fingers send pleasurable tingles down your spine. He pulls you closer to himself as he speaks so you can fully feel his large frame cradled around yours. “We don't have many possessions," he says. "We like having something that's ours."

"Oh."

"And humans are small," he murmurs. "So soft and small." He rubs circles into your scalp, and you feel his voice as much as you hear it. "So warm and pliable. Easy to hold and keep."

You catch Soap grin and realize you've been staring at him.

"See somethin' you like, hen?"

You flush and look away.

Gaz shifts to comfort you. "Don't look away," he murmurs. His big hand comes up and catches your jaw to make you look up at Soap again. "Watch his eyes. Listen to my voice."

You blink at Soap. Your mind feels sluggish. But Soap is nice to look at. And Gaz is nice to listen to. His voice is low and soothing. His hands drift. The fingertips of one hand trace your collarbone and the other strokes the softness of your throat. Your eyelids are a little heavy.

Gaz watches you for a moment before leaning very close. "Good," he whispers, and Soap's eyes darken. "Easy to hold. Just like I said."

You feel the vibrations of his voice in his chest. His voice soothes you so completely that the old legends about sirens enticing humans with their hypnotic voices surfaces briefly in your mind. Then it disappears.

His hand continues, and the soft, slow touches lull you further. Your stress ebbs away grain by grain. It’s replaced by anticipation. He rubs the soft skin of your cheek with the pad of his thumb, and you feel the calluses on his hands.

"That's a good human." He keeps using that low voice to praise you. Soft warmth and anticipation curl low in your belly. "Just keep looking." He slides a hand down your spine and across your lower back. Your muscles and your mind unwind slowly like a fraying rope. "You remember when I was telling you about a merman's bed, yeah?"

"Mm."

"That's good. Now pay attention. I want you to hear what I say. They're comfortable," he murmurs. "Warm and soft, all lined with sand that's been warmed in the sun. Perfect to lay in. To writhe in. To sink into." As if to show you, his hands slide under your wet shirt and press against the small of your back. He rubs the warm softness of your skin, and goosebumps rise where his hands pass over. "Imagine it. Imagine sinking in. Sinking in. Sink with my voice."

Your eyelids droop even more. You're sleepy.

"You're doing so well." Gaz feels how relaxed you are—the tension out of your muscles and how your limbs feel like they're melting into his. "Sink with my voice," he repeats. "You don't need to struggle anymore. Everything's alright. You're safe with us. Just let yourself… drift."

A sweet, heavy, warm softness like sinking into a hot bath. Like sinking into the sand under his hands. He guides you into a light doze and continues stroking your back and murmuring praise, your body growing heavy and lax beneath his warm hands.

"Shh," Gaz says. You're sinking deep. He guides you down into a soft, warm haze full of quiet, soothing sounds. Even Soap is watching you with a soft, rapt interest, not wanting to ruin the moment. They're taking care of you right where you belong. Deep. Safe. Warm. Comforting.

"What do you see in that bed with you?" Gaz murmurs. "One merman? Two?"

"Hmm?"

"Can't think straight, can you? You're so relaxed." He moves so his hands slide around your waist again. He knows you can't escape this time, even if you wanted to. And you look so sweet and soft. He knows you're almost asleep, almost floating away from him. "I know. Keep listening. Can you tell me what you see yet?"

"Blankets."

"That sounds so nice, doesn't it?" Gaz murmurs. His hands shift again, one drifting all the way to the back of your neck. His voice is as quiet and warm and comforting as a blanket over you. "Just sink into my voice. Keep listening. What else is in that bed with you?"

"Stuffed animals."

Gaz laughs, but it's low and soothing. "Like a child has? That's cute. But it's not like you need them."

You huff, your hypnotic trance vaguely disrupted by his words. "You asked me."

"And I got my answer." Gaz's hand slides up your neck to rest on your jaw. He strokes your pulse point again. "You're getting a little too close to falling asleep. You need to stay awake for this."

Soap has drifted closer, his dark eyes watching you. He looks hungry, but Gaz doesn't push you towards him yet. Not while you're so out of it. "Fine, fine." He rubs your neck again, and you feel your muscles melt under the pressure. "What kind of stuffed animal?"

"Hmm..."

Gaz hums back, his voice deep and soothing. Your eyes are already so heavy, your body is so relaxed in his arms. Your breath is slow and steady, and your skin feels warmer to his touch. Gaz can smell the change in your scent, your body's response to him—to all of this.

"I'm curious now." His voice is low and dark against your sensitive ear. "If you're going to have stuffed animals in your bed, I want to know what kind."

"Octopus."

"An octopus?" He murmurs. "So you want something with so many arms to wrap around you? Something tight and big?" He's so close to your ear now that his lips brush it. "You want to be wrapped up and covered and surrounded?"

"Mm... maybe. Yeah."

Your voice is heavy with drowsiness. He keeps you skirting that line between consciousness and sleep. Your body in his arms is puppet-like.

"You want to be surrounded by so many arms. Maybe even pressed against us with no space to move, yeah?" He slides a hand down your stomach.

"Mmhmm."

"Mm. So you want to sink into a nice bed, surrounded by an octopus with its big, plush arms. Surrounded on all sides with soft, soft tentacles that cover you. You want something big and soft and heavy on top of you--resting between your legs and keeping you warm and safe." His hands slide around you again. "Would that make you feel safe and protected?"

You murmur an affirmation.

"And do you feel safe and protected here? Now?"

You murmur another one.

Something like a smile curves Gaz's mouth. It's sweet that you're answering without thinking. "Mm," he hums, and he slides both hands down your thighs. His claws trace little circles on your sensitive skin. "Very good. Hold onto that feeling as you come up, human." Gaz lifts his eyes to Soap's. "We're just curious. We won't hurt you. We just want to see what you feel like. Is that alright?"

"What I feel like?"

Soap looks down at you. You barely open your eyes. Barely even react, even though you can feel his claws grazing your thigh, even though his eyes are dark and his lips parted slightly. Your eyes are so heavy, your brain so slow.

"Mm," Gaz murmurs again, and his chin brushes your ear. "Your skin's soft. Soft and warm. We want to feel you." His hands slide up your chest again, your breath shuddering at their passing, and he holds you up so your back is against his chest but your legs are still spread over his tail. He smiles. You're so close to sleep, but he doesn't want you to miss this. "Shh. You'll see. You just need to let us touch you, okay?"

"Oh." You let your legs slide to the sides of Gaz's tail and into Soap's waiting palms. "Okay."

...

part 1 / part 2 / [part 3] / part 4 / part 5

more Gaz / more Soap / more mer au / masterlist